Posts:War of South American Liberation
Here are posts on the War of South American Liberation starting from 2066. 2066, January Diego; Puerto Carrera. Diego recalled the travels he made with his father and mother as a child through the Argentine pampas. But it was not that tedious. Perhaps that time he just fell asleep after having some soda and sweets, but now not even the drugs they used to keep him restrained made the travel easier, as they didn´t managed to get him any sleep, nor to stop feeling the piling dizziness of the toxics, always threatening his mind with ripping it apart. His captors made no sound. Diego was chained to the wall of the vehicle, and forced to sit facing at the two guards, pale men with battle helmets, some electronic gadgets and sunglasses, looking similar after the effect of the drugs. They kept a constant eye on him, always holding tights the rifles, and not even going to please their needs, as the truck did had a bathroom, most likely it was a trailer adapted to transport valuable prisoners or people, but all windows were covered, and only a series of pale-blue lights allowed any vision. Then the light flooded in. “Down!” Somebody said from outside. The back door was opened and the guards stood up, unlocking the chains from the wall and guiding him out. He was a bit excited about feeling the sun bathing his skin once more. It had been months since the last time he saw it. But just as he was about to give the last step into the light they held him by the shoulder, and a hood covered his sight. He was now guided, blind, through the dark morning, and only for some seconds he felt the sun warming his hands, tightened together in his front. Then it was dark again. And the drugs didn´t help. “Uncover him.” A voice ordered. The shroud lifted, and he noticed he was in an apartment, or at least something that used to be one. In fact, it used to be a known apartment. Diego had a discussion with his father there, long ago. The balcony over watched the river, and he knew Puerto Carrera was just a few miles south. A storm formed beyond the mountains, to the west. But he was now standing, and in front of him stood a young man, probably in his late teenage. Brown hair, blue eyes. He looked older than he was. Ardaric, the first emperor of the Holy Frankish Empire of Argentina, was a strange lad, and much more than the eye could reveal. Diego had briefly meet him before, the day after he was captured, not far from that very place. But it was a short talk, and without anything of importance. However Diego did recalled Ardaric wouldn´t mock at him. That day the boy wore a combat suit, some slightly ornamented camouflage dressing. That day he was much more formal, and casual at the same time, wearing a simple but clean blue shirt hanging out of his brown pants. If he was there, it was certainly not to get his own hands dirty. “I hope the trip was pleasant.” He spoke gently, watching at the much-older defeated commander. The mere tone in his voice, his seemingly kind attitude, felt a mockery itself. “Can´t really tell, I have more shit than blood in my veins, thank to your grunts.” However he could now stand firmly and focus his eyes on the Emperor, the smell and taste in his mouth, something that resembled of bronze, or perhaps aluminium, lingered, and made him feel sick. “Besides…” He said while raising his hands, still held together by a chain that bind them with his ankles. “Oh, yes. My bad.” Ardaric made a sign and one of the soldiers walked by Diego. He held the chain with both hands and split it apart in a single try, bending the links open. As the iron leaked through his wrist, Diego noticed it was hot, nearly burning his skin. The soldier didn´t worried about the ankles, and returned to his post at the door, behind Diego. “I believe you are familiar with the place.” The boy walked around. The room was but a shadow of its former self, a personal space for his father, luxurious to his own liking. But now only a single frame without painting hand from a wall, and a half-burnt curtain hang from a pole over the window leading to the balcony, flapping at the eerie wind that came through every few seconds. Some bullets had left their mark, and there was a significant crack in a wall, the wallpaper and paint having fallen long around it. “Please, stop messing with my mind.” Diego tried to be defiant. “Sorry, but one must use every tool at their disposal. You tried to kill your father here once. This was long before I was born, but I feel I was there.” “That´s why I am here, so we can talk about my father?” “No.” Ardaric smiled and stopped walking, looking at him. His hand reached for a piece of furniture, and opened a wooden door. Inside there was a mess of glass, but from within he brought two small glasses and a bottle. “You shall introduce me to whiskey.” Not that he had many choices left there. Diego took a seat in a worn sofa, as did Ardaric just in front of him, and poured the whiskey, without ice. He wished he had some poison, although doubted it would do any good unless he slipped it into his own glass. The first drink was as he recalled. The last time they met, Ismael and Diego had shared from that very same bottle. He wondered how it had survived the blast that devastated the city some miles south. It took him a while to get used once more to the wooden traces in the smell. After Ardaric insisted he reluctantly pointed at these details, and taught him to enjoy the liquor. After the second round Diego was feeling more comfortable, and the Emperor was seemingly drunk. Maybe he could take his chance and escape? Perhaps kill him? But he had lost the will to do it. “You loved your father?” He asked Diego as they started the third round. “You know what happened here, I presume, what makes you think…” He was abruptly interrupted. “I mean before the power, before Kvatch, and politics and all this.” He waved the glass a bit, referring to the room, and beyond. “Before your Shouts and Puerto Rey, before your brother ripped himself apart from the family and you became a shattering bridge between them.” For some reason a drop fell into Diego´s glass. He licked his lips and noticed the salty taste, a rather pleasant change from the metallic presence he had grown used to, or the taste and smell of whiskey. “Stop… playing.” He tried to raise his voice, but could barely mumble. “Make me.” Ardaric replied gently, a great paradox. “Unless you don´t feel like. You have allowed me to walk through your memories as if I owned the place.” He felt his muscles tensing and gathering strength. For the first time in months he felt like shouting, and he didn´t stop it. His throat burnt, nearly tearing itself apart, but Diego didn´t stood from the chair. “''Hah…''” He intended to face Ardaric as he tried to break in his mind, to wrestle his own head. But he wasn´t able to even try. “''… Vu Lon!''” The swirling shadows consumed the stream of visions. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Ardaric was looking at him. Diego was on the floor, trembling, sweaty, tearing, soiled. His memories, hopes, fears and ideas had melted, and slowly tried to break free from each other. He could feel this struggle like a disturbing humming in his skull, as the echoes of the now forgotten nightmare that had blasted through his mind in a matter of seconds, and the echo of Ardaric´s voice shouting the nightmare into his mind. “Oh, My!” He crouched by him, frowning. “I am sorry. I will get you some clean clothes. Yours were already foul anyway. I never expected this shout to be so powerful.” He managed to put some sounds into a single word. “How?” It took years for Diego to master the Mind-Bridge, or even the concept of mind itself. But Ardaric had just come up with something entirely new. Not only that. He had somehow taken his own Thu´um, and used it against him before Diego could even wield it at all. “I don´t really know, I expected you to help me with that, but in these three-quarters of an hour I haven´t been able to do anything at all. You see, I started having these dreams and memories a year back. I had already dreamt with the experiences of my mother. But this time I dreamt something from somebody else´s memory, your father. And in time not even the memories themselves, but knowledge. One after another, these words slipped into my mind, and thoughts bent them together, making sense out of them.” It was impossible. Diego tried to make sense of it himself. Somehow this mutant had managed to read his father´s mind, a man that died long before he was even born. It was mental. But here he was now, a teenager who was able to create a Thu´um out of thin air and outplay a master in the topic. “I will be keeping you around, Diego, for talk and drink. But I also need to keep understanding this, and you are key to that. Please don´t try to keep me out of your mind again.” Diego fainted after that, as if he was ordered to do so. Tip of the Spear April 20th, Puerto Chacabuco, 10kms west of Puerto Aysén. The roar of the aircrafts passing over the bay left space to some calm in the midst of the battle, cut off some seconds later by some shots in the distance. Carlos contemplated the overall circumstance form the top of a building over the port. Puerto Chacabuco was barely a glorified dockyard, but it was enough to land troops with some speed, and the first tanks in their front rolled over the cement, entering the road among cheers of the lines of soldiers walking off the transport at their sides. The roar of the jets, BmKf46s, was enough to grant some confidence. They patrolled the bay, keeping the Frankish air force at the distance. He looked towards the eastern edge of the bay. There the river climbed into the mainland, and after 8 kms only it cut into Aysén. Smoke rose from over a hill, and a blast was heard from there, little before another Bm rose into the sky. It was seven in the morning of April 20th. News were Puerto Cisnes was already under attack, and they confirmed early at dawn the capture of the central district, establishing a tactical stalemate before their next push after securing Chacabuco. Carlos hoped they would solve it soon. “No news from Rembrandt?” He pushed the words out of his mouth, as he was more used to use the native name, Ofqui. He had walked down the stairs leading to the roof of the building, the one used to control the port activities, and now their command centre, and met other commanders in the top floor. “The teams just landed. No contact so far. “ Rembrandt was imperative. Not only it contained the blueprints of aircrafts that could allow them to increase their air power, it also included some hidden naval vessels and air units, if the Frankish artillery didn´t crushed the ceilings of the caves below the St. Quintin glacier. “Keep me informed. This is the whole point.” The operation, 180 kms south of Chacabuco and Aysén, was the main idea of the whole operation. “Summon the Aberolian Guard.” He commanded, and the sergeant nodded. An hour later he climbed into a truck. The caravan carried Carlos´s personal weapon, the Aberolian benders. Just as Kuvic used his screamers in battle, Carlos led their natural enemies, and keepers of the ancient art that was the pillar of the Aberolian Empire, decades before Patagonia became a republic. He was not Aberolian himself, but they had adopted him as one of their own, and now looked up at him as the most powerful among them. They were also well-trained in combat, and could easily swing the balance of a battle to their own side. The trucks advanced through the road around the hills for some minutes. Helicopters passed over them, turned aside and from there machineguns mounted on their doors opened fire to a target ahead of the warriors. “Here we walk down!” Manuel Ferrero, captain of the 4th Company, told Carlos. “We are going into combat, Commander.” They walked down and rushed up the hill, holding their rifles. “Spread out. Quintana, take the right flank and establish scouting positions. Malwjaqe, head to the shore and blast any bastard who dares sail through our flank.” Carlos felt as a cliché medieval leader. He could already hear the sound of bullets before stepping on the highest point of the road. The hill was the last before a flatland, and after, Puerto Aysén, beyond a small opening between two other hills, through which the road cut through. They were at the point the Herradura Bay turned its shore north, and there laid the entrance. He didn´t wanted any small boat to hit them through the bay, which led to the mouth of the river. He ducked, and used his scope to watch ahead. Some small houses were set ablaze, either by their own blasts or the enemy´s. Frankish artillery was pounding beyond the hill, and among the houses some soldiers took aim at the Patagonians. There was a hizzing sound, and a rocket was fire form the beach to the left. He turned to see the missile hit a small vessel through the gap leading to the fjord. Fire rose in the sinking ship. Malwjaqe was doing well. “Let´s advance. Suppressing fire, Quintana.” He ordered through the radio. The men at his side smiled, and they started advancing, quickly trying to get as much cover as they could. Heavy fire was poured from the hills t the right, blasting the Frankish positions. He wanted to test them. A hundred and fifty metres was all between the hill and the houses. As soon as he crossed the fence the Franks aimed. Carlos aimed his own FALP at one of them and pulled the trigger. The man fell to the ground in pain and blood, as he had blasted his left shoulder. The rest of the group, two squads, pushed into the garden, and opened fire as well. Frankish soldiers took cover inside the blazing houses, apparently unharmed by the flames. “Time to give them some relief.” He told a soldier at his side. Carlos and the soldier stood up and moved as they had been told thousands of times. They moved their hands and bodies to the rhythm of ancient songs and memories, and Carlos felt the feeling he craved since a few hours ago, since the last time he manipulated water. The grass was still wet from the last rain, and as if a powerful breeze blew in, the drops of water rose. They danced in the air for less than a second, and the drops twisted and formed strings, that wrapped around each other, forming ropes of water, extending from the dancers´ hands to the air, growing bigger and bigger. In a final move, they sent the whip into the buildings. The water was not too much, but it was moving so fast, and so cold, that it crushed through the ceiling at two points, and among smoke, steam and sparks, they rose again. Once more the water-benders lashed the house, and this time it collapsed. The franks within were crushed by the charred wood and metal. The other soldiers didn´t cheered, but laughed. They were happy, and overwhelmed with joy at the display of power they all shared. The other Frankish squads opened fire on them once more, recovered from the surprise. The Patagonians laid on the grass again and responded. But Carlos and a few of them rushed to the house, and quickly executed the surviving Franks, while opening a path among the flamed with their mastery. “Kill them!” He ordered, and they opened fire from inside the house, between shattered windows and ruined walls, and smoke and steam. The bullets pierced the walls of the next building, and the cottage responded with more bullets. Also some screams. A creature, two metres tall, pale skin and hard face, half-naked and with bones coming out of its arms, a demonic vision, rushed off the house, and headed towards them. Carlos responded, and rushed to the fight wielding his bayonet. The creature, some genetic manipulation of the enemy, held two steel bars, eighty centimetres-long each, and tried to bash Carlos´s skill. The commander stepped back and kneeled, opening fire at the beast. The bullets sunk in the flesh, but barely any blood came out, as they were pushed out, spitted by the body. The creature itself was barely held back, and recovering its balance attempted to get Carlos once more. Bullets passed around between both houses. Carlos leaped forward this time, seeing an opening, and sunk the bayonet in the beast´s body. It sunk well, but didn´t killed it. He felt the blast on his ribs. The knee did some damage. As Carlos caught back his breath, laying on the wet grass under the clear sky, he feared some ribs were split for good. The monster advanced, holding one of the bars as a steel spear, ready to impale him to the garden. “Hell no.” He said, and with both hands bound the water on the grass, and the droplets merged in the air once more, in a blank joining into a one metre-long mass of water, frozen. It whistled as it pierced through one of the legs of the beast, and then the other. The ice didn´t shattered, as Carlos held it together, with liquid water spinning over its surface and quickly filling any crack, freezing again and joining the spear. The monster fell to the ground. Carlos stood up, fighting the pain, and grabbed one of the bars, raised it, and then planet the pole into its head and into the grass. The battle around him was already over. The Franks retreated.h May 2068 Comodoro Rivadavia. May 5th They pushed back in an orderly manner. As orderly it could be made. Emilio’s youth was clearly gone, as he struggled up the hill. Perhaps it was the backpack he carried, or the rush. Another explosion. No doubt dozens were reaped off this Earth behind. When he turned a new fire was added to the handful of bonfires lighting the dawn. Before the sunrise he could see the spots on the water and over the horizon, the dark lines that made the Frankish warships. They had been there for hours before opening fire. And their barrages were devastating. A swooshing sound announced the arrival of air support, the fourth wave. The jets, refitted BmKf 46s, accelerated towards the group, and the airships surrounding the fleet came forth to meet them. Missiles were exchanged, and the Franks added weaponized laser technology to their arsenal in the air. Another flash from a ship. Emilio looked at the group below, just five hundred metres back through the road. “Hurry! They are targeting us!” The group, mostly civilians, rushed upwards. Seconds later the line of houses that made the last line before the hills was torn to ashes. Seconds before Emilio saw at least a hundred civilians and fighters making their way through them. No time to mourn, he thought. A couple of BmKfs were falling down, and splashed into the water between the warships. One of the warships had been hit by bombs, but the fires were being put out, as thrice before. The rest of the squadron retreated above their heads towards the Pampas in the west. The Warships were able to fire freely again. Category:South America Category:Lore